17th July 2001

A Mad Tea Party

There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind."

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it. "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's plenty of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large armchair at one end of the table.

"Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.
Alice looked all around the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked.
"There isn't any," said the March Hare.
"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily.
"It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare.
"I didn't know it was your table," said Alice: "it's laid for a great many more than three."
"Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.
(Excerpts from Chapter 7, 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll)

* * * * *

The excerpt above is from one of my favorite books: Alice in Wonderland. Anyway, you may think it strange why the above is present in this site... Well, because, it represents diversity. Therefore you can write to me about anything you want. Okay. This is just to break the ice. Below is my welcome message.

Welcome to T3iFansite.com. There are some cool recommendations and artwork from fans. As usual, Martha's detailed artwork continues to dazzle. Enter the Digital Gallery for a look. Chandu has penned his views on the Three Investigators  and I have of course written a log for all to read. Anyway, enjoy your surfing. This site is simple and neat.

* * * * *

19th July 2001

Unfinished Love 
Priyanka

She was a short story writer. Oh, what a writer. The world loved her. Her friends and parents admired her, and her colleagues envied her. Her pen wove magic onto the paper. The words strewn across the ruled pages were works or art, works or beauty and culture. Old and young, her stories were read by one and all. But, what was it that was behind her effortless success, her colorful imagination? Who or what was her beauteous inspiration?

The sea was a beautiful blue-gray today. Her mind was racing, racing at the speed of lightning. She was searching for a new topic to write on. Success had not gone to her head. So what if she was famous? So what if all the ladies in the kitty parties were talking about her? So what if her face was splashed on every newspaper, her name was in every magazine? Yes, she was famous.

Her mother was a very stylish woman. She was no beauty, but she was a woman of charisma. She named her only daughter 'Rivaaz'. She claimed it was stylish and in fashion. Nevertheless, Rivaaz loved her name. It was a contradiction to her loud and boisterous persona. Her dad had always wanted a son, a boy who he could train to become an army officer, like himself. Alas, Rivaaz was a girl - that too a shy and demure girl in her early years. Until...

Father always called her 'Raju'. He thought the name would bring some transformation in her personality. He had no idea.

Father bought home a lot of friends. He was a socially active army officer. One such person changed my life around. Mr. Sachdeva's son, Vishnu. He did not want to join the army like his father. He wanted to be a writer. Writing was his passion. He wrote about everything - including Rivaaz.

He and father were having a heated argument about why writing was a career for sissies. Vishnu won, and father in exasperation said, "You might want to meet my child, another aspiring writer such as you. What is with you young people these days? Rajuuuuuuuuuu...neeche aaja betey" (father always spoke to me in the masculine gender). I came bounding down the staircase, angry at having being disturbed from watching 'Dil To Pagal Hai' and shedding crocodile tears over Karisma Kapoor's departure. My white salwar kameez billowing around me, the dupatta somehow entangled in my hair.

Time stopped, total Hindi movie 'ishtyle'. Our eyes met, and I swear I could hear the shehnai sounds in the background. I was looking at the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, even better than Shahrukh Khan was. He was all of six feet, tousled hair, deep black eyes, and, oh yes, the blue fitted shirt. Father introduced me for the first time as "Meri beti Rivaaz". I think I managed a smile when father said again, "Raju, (oh papa, not in front of him please) Vishnu is also a writer like you. I think you might want to show him some of your work" I managed a "Yes papa" and gestured towards my bedroom. My heart hammering in my chest, I led him up. I could feel his eyes on my back. I had always been very shy with guys, but this was ridiculous.

He pored over my writing as though they were pieces of great mystery and entrapment. I still remember that day. He smiled a lot, especially when he saw my name signed on the bottom of each page of writing. It's a trait I have still not lost. It was eventful day; it was then that I started talking, and talking, and talking, and I just couldn't stop talking to him. We exchanged phone numbers and things started on a roll. It was the romance of a lifetime.

He was one of the few who always called me by my real name 'Rivaaz'. It would give me goosebumps every single time he would say it. The more I saw him, the more I got hooked. By the end of it, he was like a drug. Every night, when I lay down to sleep, I would think - think of his steel grey Maruti Esteem, of his favourite Enigma CD, of his green hideous socks that he refused to part with. My father, for a change, was very pleased with our relationship, he would say

"How come a dreamer like yourself, has made such a practical choice in choosing a boy?"

He was good for me; he called me beautiful. I always assumed myself to be bearable to the mirror, but this was heaven! I loved our long drives, the ones on which we constantly discovered new places, and also discovered each other. I remember the gold bangles he gave me, the 'chaiwala' that was our haunt after a night of bogeying at the disco. They were the best two years of my life. I had a ball while my parents made marriage plans.

I don't remember that day clearly. I know it was raining very hard and that I wanted nothing else but to be in his arms. We had a movie date for later in the evening. I was sitting by my window writing an article for the newspaper. I had recently got a job as the travel columnist at the local newspaper. The phone rang, I did not want to pick it up I was too intrigued by the beautiful hills of Kodaikanal. The servant picked it up downstairs and came running up saying, "Babyji, babyji, aapka phone hai, papa ka." The urgency in his voice made me hurriedly pick up the extension in my room. All I heard on the phone was, "Rivaaz, I am sending you the car. Come immediately, I am at the hospital. He has been injured"

I did not have the guts to ask who "he" was. In mechanical movements, I reached the hospital, still in my bathroom slippers and my hair still wet from the bath I recently took. What I saw took my breath away. There he was, the most beautiful thing in the world, in the most ghastly circumstances. Vishnu was lying unconscious on the bed, a million tubes came out of him from all directions. I wanted to scream, "Why hadn't anyone told me about his fall from the staircase? Why didn't anyone tell me that he hit his head against the marble? Why wasn't I told that he was in for brain damage? That he was going to die, that I couldn't say goodbye...why?"

Three months later:
What had changed? Nothing. I was still madly in love with him. Only now, he just existed in my imagination, in his enigma CD, in my gold bangles and in the green socks I stole from his room. I did nothing those days, I quit my job and gave up most of the things that I loved. If I couldn't have him, I wanted nothing else.

It happened one day when his mother called me over to his house. I went, not wanting to go, not wanting to be assaulted by memories. She smiled as I came in, and handed me a box - a box of letters, letters for me. She found it in the bottom shelf of his closet. Letters that contained his innermost thoughts, his feelings and wishes; letters he wanted to give me as my wedding present. I read every one of them, and reread them again and again. I knew what I had to do. I had to give his spirit the satisfaction of having loved completely.

I started writing again with a feverish pace. I begged for my old job again and the Editor of the newspaper, being a good friend, gave it back to me. I wrote and wrote, and sent every piece of my writing to some magazine or some publication. I got very good response. I was made to realise that I was good.

Then I created her, my baby, my book of short stories. It was my hard work, my effort, the new me, and my love for Vishnu. It was titled 'I Am Complete - by Rivaaz Sachdeva' I used his surname, that was the new me. On the cover of the book were a picture of lord Vishnu and a girl standing there with her hands folded. I dedicated the book to him, I wrote, "Vishnu, my Lord, stand by me always" No one had to know what it meant. And that was just the beginning...

The reporter finished her interview and got ready to leave. This was her fourth book ready for release. She had to go meet a few associates for lunch. The magazine article was yet to be finished and her website was yet to be updated. Her secretary was busy cramming engagements into her tight schedule. She fingered the locket of Lord Vishnu she wore round her neck, and got into her steel grey Maruti Esteem and zoomed of to the chaiwala round the corner. She needed a break.

Priyanka, 15, studies in La Mar, Calcutta, India. She likes writing, reading, music and making friends

* * * * *

Above is a story I read by an amateur writer. It's pretty good and I suggest You save this page before anything else so that you can read it later, leisurely. I like many kinds of stories and my imagination gets really caught up with different thoughts and pictures. Well, next time then.

* * * * *

20th July 2001

Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri
Shruthi G. Krishnan

I finally put down Jhumpa Lahiri's 'Interpreter of Maladies' with a sense of contentment in my heart and some new words to my vocabulary. The book is a wonderful collection of Indian short stories set in different parts of the globe like Boston, Orissa, Bengal, Cambridge and others, such an absolute page-turner that I couldn't put it down before reading it completely. The 'Interpreter of Maladies', Lahiri's maiden venture into the world of literature has won her the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, 2000.

One cannot help admiring her great sense of humour, keen observation, vivid description of places and people and her ear for irony. We tend to identify with each of the characters, having met someone similar at least once in our life times. Elegantly written, these stories talk of Indian culture, traditions including food and festival, clothes and customs. Her sentences are often long, but clear and precise and her metaphors and similes are extraordinarily apt to the situation or to the item in question. In short, Lahiri leaves no room for ambiguity.

There are nine tales in all, most of them revolving around Bengali families. The title story, 'Interpreter of Maladies' has Mr. Kapasi, the part time tourist guide in the lead role. He's surprised when one of the tourists, Mrs. Das expresses her interest in his part time job as an interpreter between the doctor and his patients. What had been considered as boring and dull by his wife, suddenly sounds as important as life-saving, according to Mrs. Das. And only because of his job, Mr. Kapasi gets to hear a shocking revelation.

Shobha and Shukumar in 'A Temporary Matter' deserve sympathy and support as they slowly strengthen their failing marriage, following the loss of their baby. 'The Third and Final Continent' talks of a man who's left India for the United States and how he struggles in a new place, during his early days and his first landlady, Mrs. Croft is portrayed as a stern, but sweet old lady who has actually lived a century!

'The Treatment Of Bibi Halder' is a serious theme illustrated in a funny manner, where a young woman is deprived of marriage, due to some mysterious illness and who is finally cured with the birth of her son. Twenty-two year old Midwestern woman, Ms. Miranda is the 'other woman' in an extra martial relation and it is seven-year-old Rohin who open her eyes in 'Sexy'. Mrs. Sen defines a typical Bengali housewife, who goes about her usual household chores while looking after 11 year old Eliot in 'Mrs. Sen's' . Her getting excited over a letter from her relatives back in India is something anyone who has been abroad must have faced at some point of time.

Set against the backdrop of the 1971 Indo-Pak war, 'When Mr. Pirzada came to dine' narrates the touching tale of a man who goes through a tough time, missing his wife and seven daughters back in Dacca, before he is finally reunited with them. He even has a watch, perpetually set to the Dacca time. One cannot decipher whether Boori Ma, an old sweeper of the stairwell, is lying or not about her luxurious life in the past. After having served everyone like a family member, the inmates finally throw her out in 'A Real Durwan'. Then, last but not the least, there is this young couple, Sanjeev and Twinkle in 'This Blessed House', where the chirpy, bubbly heroine keeps finding Christian paraphernalia in their new home.

Some of the stories have an ending that can be individually tailored to each one's way of thinking. Yes, the conclusion is left to the reader's discretion. On the whole, 'Interpreter of Maladies' will not disappoint you. It brings with it the smell of the Indian soil. Classic, amazing and simply marvelous would be my choice of words to describe this book.

Shruthi G. Krishnan, 21, lives in Dubai, UAE.

* * * * *

Interpreter of Maladies is one of my favorite books. Really a masterpiece in short story writing. I highly recommend this book to all fans.

* * * * *

21st July 2001

Brutus' Speech
from Julius Caesar

Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe.

Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.

Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was for fortunate; I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his ambition.

Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that would not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

* * * * *

Given above is the famous speech delivered by Brutus after he slew Caesar along with his fellow conspirators. I really think it's a speech with tremendous meaning. It had a deep impact on the Roman people. Anyway, I post it up for everyone to read to display the writing power of the greatest of playwrights -- William Shakespeare. Anyway. Next time then.

* * * * *

Basil Andre Diengdoh ([email protected])